


Professionals

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Chef RPF
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Jealousy, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-03
Updated: 2010-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-11 12:44:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curtis sees something intriguing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Professionals

Curtis really should not be doing this. He knows that, of course, but it doesn't stop him from standing stock still in the little hallway between the line and the walk-in, staring.

He doesn't have a very good view from here; they're on the other side of the pass and he only sees them at an angle, obstructed by gleaming metal and slips of paper marking orders long since filled. It's after midnight and last time he checked, Grant was in his office, not laughing and pinning Tony Bourdain against the countertop. There are only a few lights on, the hallway dark, Curtis's hand clutching tight around an inventory pad. He doesn't have to do these little tasks, but he doesn't trust the runners and the people who are supposed to be doing their jobs. He doesn't trust anyone else with the food he's responsible for preparing. This is the first time his anal little habits have gotten him into this much shit.

"Bastard," Tony laughs, and there's a clatter as they struggle, the loud bang of something crashing to the floor.

"Cocktease," Grant replies smoothly, and Curtis can just _see_ his boss's grin. He's pictured it so many times, after all, though in his fantasies it's been his cock, not Tony's, that Grant had his hand on. He's pictured a bed, not a kitchen. He's loathe to admit it, but he's pictured romance.

Curtis knows what's going on below the line of sight because he hears Tony's gasp, and catches the shift of Grant's shoulder for just a second before they lean out of view again. He's frozen in the hallway, because he can't let them know that he's here, can't cough and hear Tony's satisfied laugh, feel the firm pat on the back, the "we know our secret's safe with you" buddy mentality of a kitchen that assumes Curtis likes girls, that whatever the big boys are doing after hours doesn't interest him. He wants a joint so badly right now, but that would require leaving, walking through the kitchen, letting them know. He lurks, instead, in the half-shadows, and listens despite the pain. Tony's breathing gets heavier, and he wants to hear more of Grant's voice, hear Grant narrate the scene, how he's jerking Tony's cock, how Tony's a whore for it, wants to hear that self-satisfied note.

Of course, that's not what's going to happen, because that's not Grant and Tony, that's just the Grant that Curtis has imagined so many times in his head. Confident, dominant, teasing, murmuring dirty talk in Curtis's ear with the same joking lilt he uses to make Curtis feel at ease when his fucking sauce has broken or he's misread an order. That Grant doesn't exist, but this little episode is not doing much to help Curtis remember that. Tony growls "motherfucker" as he comes, and the two chefs don't bother to kiss when it's over, Grant wiping his hand on his apron instead. Curtis isn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. He needs to fucking get out of this job.


End file.
